


On the Cultivation of Orchids

by StronglyLetteredWord



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a gardener, Free Verse, It's Soft, M/M, Poetry, We're all Soft here, and a garden, excessive use of metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21561589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StronglyLetteredWord/pseuds/StronglyLetteredWord
Summary: "Sometimes your love for him is like burnweed."A poem about Crowley and Aziraphale and gardens.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 7





	On the Cultivation of Orchids

**On the Cultivation of Orchids**

Sometimes your love for him is like burnweed.  
It takes root within you after the ravages of fire  
or where the soil has been disturbed,  
and it sneaks into all the corners  
of your garden heart, once barren,  
so there’s no room for anything else.

You try to weed it out, yank it from your veins,  
but the nettles bite your fingers  
and it spreads and grows  
faster than you can scrabble at the roots.

The seed pods burst and rain over  
your garden heart  
and your clothes  
and your skin,  
and they get into all the tight places  
you’d set aside for other things.

You didn’t want the burnweed after the fire,  
and yet --  
they say it’s a balm, medicinal, even as it stings your hands  
where you clutch it.

Sometimes, too, his love for you is like an orchid,  
beautiful and delicate,  
and you wonder how the flower survives  
in the wild when it’s so difficult to cultivate  
under the shelter of your garden heart.

And if your love is not burnweed but water  
like the first rain,  
you have to be careful, so careful,  
not to drown the orchid  
in the wave of your love  
like the Flood.

You must only place an ice cube  
in the pot, just there,  
and wait patiently while it drips  
down into the soil  
and the orchid takes what it needs and no more  
of your gentle invitation

even as the burnweed is its own fire  
consuming you from the inside  
and threatening to climb up your throat  
and burst out of your mouth  
and dry up the air  
and whither the orchid with wanting  
_too much, too much, too fast --_

You mustn’t overwhelm the orchid  
with the burnweed in your veins  
(even as it soothes, medicinal)  
or overwater with your love.

(Because you were once the weed in the garden,  
an unlooked for invasive species:  
too much and found wanting all at once.

And instead of pulling you out by your roots  
and throwing you over the garden gate,  
cautiously, cautiously,  
he gave over a little corner of his garden heart  
even then  
and let you take root there.)

But if you are lucky,  
but if you are patient,  
but if the sun and the humidity and the ice  
are just right, _oh,_

the orchid will bloom and trail fragrance across  
your garden heart  
and your clothes  
and your skin,  
and it will get into all the tight places  
you’d set aside for him.


End file.
